The School Days of Sherlock Holmes
by Morglay
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is thirteen years old. The next five years of his life will make him. But what will they entail?
1. Preface

Standing in the wake of devastation, Sherlock Holmes looked out onto the ghost of a wide, wide sea. He had been balanced on the edge of the unknown for the entirety of the storm, and now his foot dangled playfully over it. It was the last day.

It was the one place he could think clearly, up on this jagged rock. The one place he felt himself to be impossibly alone. Today, Sherlock had promised himself, he would indulge in this selfish delight just once more. Tomorrow would bring whatever tomorrow brought. It was seldom of use to dwell on it.

He was aware that the dark-haired man had approached, but ignored his presence. Sherlock closed his eyes and let the wind lick his hair, breathing in the cataclysms which shattered rocks beneath his feet for what he perceived to be the last time.

"All things must come to an end, _Sherlock_."

The distant voice reached him on some level, the words lingering in his head. Abandoning his thoughts, Sherlock turned from the sea and headed back towards the grass. The man called out again.

"I never said you had to like it."

As Sherlock mounted the incline, his brother followed. At the top, they joined the path that ran along the edge of the cliff, and for a time walked side by side in silence. As the path veered to the left, Sherlock got a full view of the bay. The tide was low, and he could see where the force of the river water had left a gorge down its centre. Clouds parted, and the moonlight glided over the placid bay, as if to make amends.

* * *

**A/N: Hi. This is my first story, so I would find it really helpful if you reviewed. Any and every criticism would be very much appreciated! Thanks. :)**


	2. Chapter One

It wasn't the easiest thing in the world to send one's brother off to boarding school, especially when one's brother was as stubborn as Sherlock Holmes. The boy had been entrusted into his care, and Mycroft had neither the time nor the energy to interfere in Sherlock's welfare as much as their parents had.

It was a temporary arrangement, but Mycroft felt it to be a reasonable one. Their parents would return from South Africa within the year and Sherlock had been promised that if thus inclined, he could leave the boarding school then. Mycroft had his own way to work up in the world.

He was nearing the end of his years at Oxford and had the ever-increasing pressure of choosing what to do next. His achievements throughout the course could easily earn him a place in the British government, but Mycroft wasn't interested in the public side of politics. Again he lacked the energy.

Sherlock, on the other hand, certainly did not. Despite his reserved nature, spurts of determination regularly interrupted the peace that Mycroft had founded with their parents gone, and on occasions caused havoc. But in the last year, or at least since Sherlock had turned thirteen, these bursts began to occur less frequently. Once Sherlock had found something to employ himself with, that is.

He was ever so _peculiar_.

Mycroft held the thought as he turned to see his brother lingering on the bottom stair. Sherlock looked pale, as if sleep hadn't touched him, and dark bags hung beneath his eyes. Gradually, he glided into the living room and sat himself down opposite Mycroft. As he spoke, his eyes sank to the ground.

"When do we leave?"

Seeing his brother like this, Mycroft grew hesitant. It could easily be arranged for Sherlock to move up to Oxford. It wasn't as if he couldn't look after himself. But on second thoughts, Mycroft decided against it. Sherlock needed to grow up, and what better a way to do so than this?

It was for his own good.

"Midday."

Sherlock nodded, eyes still cast down.

The journey would take just under half an hour. Mycroft had anticipated it would be spent in silence. He was not disappointed.


	3. Chapter Two

Mycroft had left Sherlock without saying farewell. They had taken his trunk up to his dormitory together, but in doing so spoke only once. That was on the occasion of being introduced to Sherlock's housemaster, Mr Pullman, a man in his early-forties who taught history.

And so Sherlock was left alone in his dormitory, albeit temporarily, but very much to his own devices. He had been placed in the far room, at the very end of the first year's corridor. And he half suspected this was Mycroft's doing, a grand yet subtle gesture to warn some poor souls to keep well away. Even the two beds were in opposing corners as if to create as much distance between the two inhabitants as possible.

So far, anything that hailed the possibility of being exciting had failed to present itself. But then again, he'd only been there ten minutes. And having lingered in the doorway for a sizable portion of this time, continuously debating the fundamental conflicts which might arise as a result of his time at a boarding school, Sherlock made forward for his trunk.

He lifted everything that was necessary to make his bed, and set about doing so.

The room itself wasn't so positively repugnant, he decided. It was relatively sizable, square in shape, and by his judgement one of the largest in that particular wing of the boarding house. Had it not been for the distasteful and childish choice of curtains and the yellow walls, Sherlock may have been half inclined to like it. It was dim enough, at least. The close proximity of two great oaks that stood directly outside the room's only window resulted in a perpetual darkness close to that which only night could sustain.

Once the creases in his duvet had been smoothed out, Sherlock set about his next task. As ever, he had carefully planned precisely where all of his belongings would go, and this made the job of unpacking inordinately easy. He divided his clothes into neatly folded piles according to their purpose, and allocated them specific locations around the room. His sports clothes were to be separated further into three groups and occupy the chest of draws at the foot of his bed, thus reserving space beneath the bed exclusively for his home clothes to reside, which Sherlock could wear in the evenings if he were so inclined. And as for the wardrobe, that was to house towels and dressing gowns and slippers and other fluffy items that within a few weeks were sentenced to be threadbare, along coats and his school uniform. Except it wasn't exactly a uniform. The school didn't have so much a uniform as a dress code. It did not expressively specify what you had to wear, simply what you could not. And even this was ignored to a certain extent. Anyhow, the school wanted their students to be individual, at least within reason.

By this time, Sherlock had now applied himself to unloading the vast sum of books he had transported from his bedroom library. A select few of them had been read time and time again, his timeless favourites which never failed to evoke a new perspective from him. He became the characters and the characters became him. As he grew, the books grew with him, and slowly and assertively they became more than _just_ a book, more than _just_ a part of him. They became his soul.

Even the covers meant something to him. Take the one he was holding now. The greenish grey of the worn cover was reminiscent of a certain type of seaweed he had encountered one summer while on the western isles off of Oban, in Scotland. He hadn't been back there since, but very much meant to, taking a peculiar liking to the disagreeable weather that had irritated their voyages into the North. It smelt slightly musty and showed painfully its past owner's worsened days, but it was beautiful all the same. And yet the bold, black letters on the cover spelt out the title of a children's novel he had never read.

Sherlock was about to give the books pride of place on his shelf when something scattered his train of thought.

Movement.

Sherlock lifted his attention from the books just in time to observe the door open a crack before a figure stepped through, pursued by two shadows. He briefly gazed at Sherlock in the darkness before one of the shadows slapped at the switch by the door, causing a torrent of light to violate the room.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the shadow said, absentmindedly, ushering her boy to the empty side of the room. "I didn't see you there. You don't mind, do you? It is awfully dark in here."

"Not at all." Sherlock replied unconvincingly. He returned his preoccupation to the books.

The shadow must have given her son some kind of incitement to introduce himself, for mere seconds later Sherlock sensed a presence behind him and turned round to meet a hand already outstretched, offering companionship. He raised his eyes only to find deep, engaging eyes gazing back at him. Eyes that were impossible to look away from for a single moment.

"Cameron," the boy said.

He took Cameron's hand in a firm embrace.

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."


	4. Chapter Three

It was on the following day that Sherlock found himself sitting in a large oak-panelled room, nervously awaiting the arrival of a teacher whose subject may or may not determine how he would fare in the subsequent five years of his education. As was customary, they had begun the year with a whole school assembly, which was, as most assemblies at boarding schools tend to be, tedious and incredibly long drawn.

The headmistress went through the standard procedure of welcoming the new pupils to the school, welcoming the incumbent pupils back, and reading out the school's principle rules. The examination results of the former pupils who had achieved the finest grades were also announced, and this was met with steady apathetic applause.

His reflections of the day thus far we momentarily interrupted when a pile of books were slammed down on the desk beside him. He exited his delirium, only to find the familiar frame standing above him to be none other than that of Cameron's. The boy smiled briskly, and then turned his attention to acquainting himself with those amongst the class he had not yet met.

Sherlock gazed upwards with an element of envious admiration. This boy, whom he did not yet consider himself to know, seemed to possess enough self-assurance to be content with, and yet precisely the right mix of dignity to be tolerable.

It was in the middle of this mediation that the door swung open and a tall, severe man in his thirties entered. The room fell into silence, and every member of the class rose to their feet as he strode towards the front. He seemed to be muttering something under his breath, and by the time he had reached his desk the indiscernible prattle had manifested itself into an eruption of the spoken word.

'You may have heard,' he began in a low, sombre tone, 'along the-' and here he paused a moment, dampening his lips as he selected the most condescending word out of the air, '_grapevine_, that I don't like to use conventional school punishments. So if you find yourself misbehaving in my class this year, do not imagine that it is impossible for you to find yourself running to the boathouse during break-time, or perhaps accompanying me on an early-morning run.'

All of a sudden, he clasped his hands together and his tone changed.

'Now, I am meant to be teaching you about the escalation to the First World War, the arms' race and all that. But I find that boring, so instead I shall teach you about The Iranian Revolution. There's a little more fun to be had there.

But before we begin, I don't like this seating arrangement. All the potential jocks seem to be clustered around the back, and all the sluts are at the front. Can we mix it up a little please? How about good old alphabetical order? Faulkner, Fitzpatrick, Friedman, Frost-'

As he read out each surname, the pupil to whom it belonged rose anxiously and proceeded forward to the desk they had been allocated.

'Look's like we'll still be sitting together then, Sherlock.' The voice beside him said. When there came no response but a fleeting smile, it persisted. 'Are you alright? You look rather solemn.'

Before Sherlock had had a chance to respond, the word 'Holmes' reverberated around the room, followed in quick succession by 'Hurst'. It took them a moment or two to compose themselves, each having initially thought they might have earned the first break run of the term. They took up their possessions and crossed over to the opposite side of the classroom. Scarcely had Sherlock seated himself when a pair of eyes from the row in front turned to meet his. They were vaguely familiar, though for the life of him he couldn't remember where from.

'You were at the scholarships, weren't you?' The girl said as she leant forward, pressing her elbows gently against the edge of Sherlock's desk.

He nodded.

'Did you get one?'

'No.'

'Oh.' She cast her eyes down momentarily, only for them to rise up and meet his once more a mere second later. 'Well,' she began, her voice having dropped slightly. 'Never mind.'

The girl had the ability to speak with great tenderness. It was almost as if her voice contained some sort of distilled compassion. An abnormal mind is often quick to detect this and attach itself when it sees this quality in a person, and so it came about that Sherlock found himself immediately taking a liking to her.

'I'm Aleaia, by the way.'

'Sherlock.'

She smiled.

'I know.'


End file.
